Orange construction barrels bordering either side of the freeway in tidy rows, equidistantly spaced, an orderly battalion waiting patiently for construction to break out. A woman I know, her husband works for the highway department and he moves them around. He never goes back for more, wherever more are. He moves them from one place to another. With the same spirit of decorum as calling shit ‘plant nutrition,’ orange construction barrels are known as ‘traffic safety drums.’ Sometimes they block off a lane with traffic safety drums when there’s no construction.
Last summer I changed my route to work three times to circumvent roads I normally take in varying states of disassembly. Sunbaked dudes in white hard hats and reflective vests of a florescent color somewhere between green and yellow, with their walkie-talkies holding a pole with STOP on one side and SLOW on the other. When they turn the sign to SLOW sometimes they think I’m going too fast and make frantic downward arm gestures for me to slow down. Everyone knows fines are double in a work zone, so the way I see it, it’s my risk to take. If there was anyone in these work zones I’d appreciate their concern.
On my commute the radio is on, sports talk when my other options are drive-time personalities or conservative talk radio. Apparently someone making $10 million or $15 million a year can be underpaid. They talk about how unfair it is that collegiate athletes aren’t paid, collegiate athletes on scholarship as a disadvantaged social class. I think little about these things the right-wing pundits rail on because I have my life to tend to and these things seem far removed from my reality. Distractions more than injustices. Things to get good and angry about that have little to do with me or that I have no control over.
